


Dress [I Don't Want You Like A Best Friend]

by lookingforatardis



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Song fic, ft. the button sweater, is it really pining if they know they drive each other crazy, still using the tag, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 01:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14630760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingforatardis/pseuds/lookingforatardis
Summary: Prompt: song fic inspired by Dress by Taylor Swift"Our secret moments in a crowded room. They got no idea about me and you."





	Dress [I Don't Want You Like A Best Friend]

**Author's Note:**

> yo shout out to the anon who requested this because I've been wanting to write fics to all the reputation songs since january and just haven't gotten the time.

" _Timmy_!"

There had been a time when my name was more of an annoyance than anything, never knowing whether to say _Tim_ or _Timmy_ or _Timothée;_ god forbid I pronounce it the right way. It felt foreign, always just a little off. I liked nicknames if I'm honest— they got around the whole ordeal and there's something inherently comforting about knowing another person actually considered what _they_ wanted to call you, claiming that friendship or whatever it might be for themselves. The first time he called me Timmy, it hit me hard despite it being the name everyone had taken to calling me.

I felt it— the choice to call me Timmy, the distinct decision he made. I felt it every time he called me Tim, every Sweet Tea, every single time he used a name to catch my attention instead of touch; I felt it like fingerprints.

I glance up only to find his eyes and a smile breaking out on his features. I told him once that the way his eyes crinkle is one of my favorite things, and he laughed, swatted my hands away when I touched the lines. He said it was because he was old, and I told him it was because he was kind, and he gave me that look...God, that look. He could melt ice with that look, I swear to God.

He wants me to tell a story, but I don't know what I'm even saying because he's less than a foot away and I can't touch him. It had been weeks since we'd seen each other in person, weeks since his arms were around me, since he tugged at my hair in a way he shouldn't. We'd been toeing this line for so long that sometimes it felt like we were being boiled alive, the temperature turning up so slowly that I hadn't even noticed my skin was burning with the slightest glance. He'd kissed me so many times without much explanation that I'd come to assume I'd be permitted his lips, all the while forgetting I had no real claim here. The first time it happened, I wanted to ask so badly, _what is this?_ He'd touched my face and held me in a tight embrace and I forget the words, grateful just to be held again in the arms that made me feel safer than anything ever had. The second time, I worried so much he'd withdraw if I asked, his wife down the hall, his hands pulling away too quickly, eyes too wide. It got to the point where asking felt stupid, as if I should have figured it out at some point by myself, as if I should just _know_ what it meant.

And maybe I did, but maybe I was also projecting and this isn't what I want it to be, what I need it to be.

He hasn't kissed me yet and it's killing me. I'm wearing the sweater he likes— I thought it might provoke him. I didn't realize I'd been conditioned to him, to expect the way he holds my face and sighs against me. I didn't realize I'd been hoping he'd do it in the airport, as foolish as that is. He wouldn't dare, especially not when this thing between us doesn't even have a label. I've lost so much sleep over it that at this point it's second nature to be exhausted by the time I get to see him. It only exacerbates the problem; I get clingy and want to hold him, and that never helps. He's my _best friend_ — as far as the world is concerned, I shouldn't want him like this. I shouldn't have searched my room in a panic last night, not knowing where this button sweater was, knowing the only time I got close to any sort of answer, I was wearing it. He'd pulled me into an elevator and told me I was being a tease, his fingers running over my back and down the cool buttons. I asked him what he meant and he kissed me…

We almost got caught, he told me he was sorry later and that he shouldn't have been so reckless. I thought that was it; I was so sure he'd tell me how he felt then. How could he deny it when the thought of undressing me made him kiss me in a public place? I felt every day since then like a weighted blanket; I know he feels this, _wants_ this even, but he won't let himself give in beyond sporadic kisses when the tension or emotion runs too high to ignore.

I'd waited, I played nice, but he's swaying, and every time he leans towards me I can smell his cologne, and I keep catching his eyes tracing down my body and there can't be a single person here who doesn't suspect…right?

His wife is off somewhere, I don't even remember. Keeping track of her made it harder to face what I wanted. If she's not next to him, then I am. That's what matters. But they're talking about her in this circle of his "friends," and I can't help but wonder if he's remembering the time he pressed me against a wall with his body at Nick's place, his friends in the other room raving about the pastries she brought as he sucked my neck so hard I worried about marks.

God, we can't go on like this forever, can we? I'm burning up here.

Perhaps the strangest part was how easily people believed nothing was happening. They saw us and thought nothing of the way his body shifted towards me, or my eyes caught on hem of his shirt. We'd somehow played our flirtation off so well that people believed this was genuinely our _friendship_. I suppose it is technically— we're still friends— but this isn't how friends are supposed to act.

I wander after a while to get more wine and hope his eyes follow, too afraid to turn back to check. I see the girl behind the bar look between us as I approach and know then that he is, that there would be no other reason for her to stare. _Good_.

I want him to cave, I want him to text me a place and time right now and give me something to look forward to. He'd never risk slipping away at an event like this with cameras everywhere and his wife entertaining in a corner of the party, though. Not to mention we'd be missed— people keep coming up to us and talking about the movie and still, it amazes me how many people are invested even so long after its release. It's a constant reminder of the time we spent together, as well as their perceptions of us, their assumptions. They see us and think they know, think they see the way I look at him and understand the affection I feel and call it playful, platonic. They have no idea he got so turned on during filming that Luca had everyone clear set, the two of us talking about fucking just to ease the tension, the closest we ever got to actually giving in. They don't know we share beds whenever his wife isn't traveling with him; that when he visits me, we stay in bed for hours and hours just staring and talking. They don't know that when he calls me _Tim,_ he really means _mine._

It's hours before I talk to him again— he keeps getting shuffled off into new conversations that I don't want to interrupt, and everyone I know seems to want to introduce me to someone. I drink a lot of wine to make up for it and stumble off towards a hallway at some point. There has to be bathrooms in this mansion, but I'm not sure where any of them are. I open door after door until I'm granted a large porcelain tub and gray tiling. After going to the bathroom, I sit in the tub and stare at the ceiling, remembering the first time we kissed in Crema. Even then, he left me breathless. I should have known.

There's a knock, six actually, rhythmically tapped out on the door. It's him, how he signals to me the coast is clear. I won't ask how he knew I was here, just like I'm sure he won't offer the information up. "Come in." I don't want to move, and I don't want to think about him scolding me for running off like a petulant child. I want his hands and skin and lips and I'm not sure I'll be given any of that. So instead, I down the rest of my wine as he opens the door.

His smile is slow as he takes me in, his leg kicking the door shut quietly. He reaches behind him to lock it and when he returns his gaze to me, he sinks to the floor. "What are you doing?" he asks quietly, almost reverently. One of his legs is bent, his elbow resting against his knee. He rolled his sleeves up since I last saw him and his tie is loose around his neck; not fair. I shrug. "Tim," he sighs, resting his head against the wall.

"I missed you," I say, because it's true, because I don't think he'd appreciate me telling him I love him right out of the gate.

He glances back at me and smiles fondly, the corners of his eyes wrinkling just how I like. "Scoot over."

"You're not going to fit," I laugh suddenly, my eyes wide as he stands and gestures at me. "Armie!" I bite my lip as he pushes me to one side of the tub and tries to climb in, our legs trapped and my wine-drunk laughter covering us. He pulls my legs away from my body so they rest near his hips, his own folding and unfolding until one is to my left, the other tucked under mine. He doesn't pull his hands from my thighs when he's satisfied with our position, and I let my own hand wander over his leg at my side, smiling when he shivers; at least the back of his legs is still sensitive to my fingers raking over them like I remember.

"What are we doing in a tub?" he asks me, and I laugh, squeezing his leg.

"You're the one who climbed in after me," I tell him.

"I missed you, too," he says as if it explains everything, and maybe it does as he reaches out to tousle my hair. Silence hangs over us for a moment and I feel naked under his gaze. Sometimes he looks at me like this and I think it's okay if it's never more than what it is, because at least I'd have this, at least I'd get his stolen glances and heated touch, even if it's only sometimes. Something is better than nothing when it comes to him.

"Kiss me," I say, too drunk to care that I've never actually initiated. He just stares and it's frustrating because the door is _locked_ and we're so fucking close and it's not like he hasn't done it before. I shift, ignoring his protests that he just got comfortable. My legs go around him and I sit against his thighs, my fingers in his hair and his at my sides. " _Kiss me_." He watches the words form on my lips and nods, his hands slipping up my back and over the buttons.

The second his lips connect with mine, I simultaneously collapse and ignite above him. He tastes like gin and I wonder if it's for my sake, my body pressing closer to take advantage of the moment before it's too late. I need something to get me through however long it'll be until I see him again. It isn't until his fingers start threading into the gaps between the buttons that I realize tonight is different, that he's touching me and taking and claiming, his lips traveling down to my jawline, his teeth dragging over the skin. I grab his tie and pull him up so he's less laying against the back of the tub, and more-so sitting up against me. His eyes darken when they meet mine, the fabric wrapped around my fist. I was a fool to ever think I'd be content with just being friends when I've seen the way his mood shifts under my hands. I lean down and kiss him, releasing his tie for his hair, knowing it's his weakness. I can feel his fingertips against my back where they've managed to snake through the buttons' gaps, and for a moment I worry he might rip the sweater apart. I wouldn't mind _that_ much, but then I wouldn't have anything to wear back out there.

There's a knock at the door, insistent and cold. He starts to pull away, but I don't let him go far, my lips against his throat. It's slipping away, this moment. It's almost gone and I can feel it dissolving at our feet. I don't know when I'll get another chance and it makes me desperate, my hands fisting in his shirt as I kiss his neck. "Timmy," he whispers, a warning.

" _Hello? Come on! There's a line."_

"There's another bathroom down the hall!" Armie says, his voice loud and authoritative, his hands soft against my face when he turns me to look at him. He must know, surely he must know I don't him the way they think I do, that I want more, so much more than I'll ever be allowed. "Tim," he whispers, brushing my hair out of my eyes. I can't stop my body from shivering.

"I know," I nod, because time is out and people are going to see us walk out together so we need a plan before this gets out of hand.

He tells them I got sick, _too much wine_. It helps that I look ill after being denied his touch. It's too late, though; I see him after he returns to her side, his eyes catching mine in a way that says he wishes we were alone again. He's fidgety and she takes notice. She slips her hand into the crease of his arm and I wonder if she knows he likes it when he gets to feel small and held; if she knows the weed is a coverup for wanting to feel numb instead of confused; if she sees the birthmark on his shoulder and knows it's mine now, the discoloration a fascination of mine during filming, a lyric to a song just for us. She can't possibly when she pulls away to run a hand down his back, seemingly unaware that resting a hand between his shoulder blades would calm him down.

We drift in the same circles for most of the night, his hand brushing against mine whenever we're close enough. It's not nearly enough, but it tells me he's thinking of me, and that _does_ help, but I can only be introduced as his friend so many times before I'm tempted to prove a point and ask him if he remembers the time he bruised my hips from holding me against him so hard. People laugh and joke all around us but he only seems to look at me when he laughs, touch me when someone walks near us. To anyone, our interactions are normal behavior for us. To anyone, they're oblivious to the charge behind such actions, their ignorance to our situation a flattering reflection of our abilities to act even in reality. No one seems to realize we were in the bathroom together earlier, that I still feel his hands on my body, that every time he has to drift closer to her for appearances, my heart breaks.

I leave first, tired and hopeless. She's still making rounds, soaking up the night without the kids while she can. I can't blame her, they don't go out much unless it's an event or press, and I remember our own press, how badly I wanted to spend every second with him. I guess not much has changed.

He texts me while I'm still in the cab to the hotel, _Did you leave??_ to which I reply a simple yes. He tells me he had someone he wanted me to meet, someone he worked with a while ago who wanted to meet his "infamous best friend." I text him my room number as a response, wait for a reaction, for some sort of indication of him objecting. _I'm with her_ , comes through after a few minutes and it collapses my lungs as I pay for the cab and get out. I tell him I need help getting my sweater off, to which he tells me I'm drunk. This game is one we've played before, but I have no time or patience for it tonight. I send him a picture of my room with the number again, and don't reply when he complains about it being reckless. I want reckless, I fell in _love_ with reckless. Another text comes through a while later about him being sorry, that he knows I'm upset and he wishes he could fix it. Still, I hold out.

The knocks come an hour later, waking me up. He stands in the doorway with a heavy gaze, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that comforts me. We stare at each other for a moment, time passing like molasses.

 _"Tim,_ " he whispers, the world shifting on its axis as the air around us thickens, and I'm gone. I'm so completely gone as I fall into his arms, his lips on mine faster than I can shut the door behind us, his hands as eager as I've been since the day I met him. It registers in my mind that I ought to savor the moment for as long as it lasts, never knowing when I'll get another chance. I can't stop my hands from shaking when I throw his stupid tie off him, when I fumble with his buttons. He takes his time with mine, as I knew he would. He'd probably been dreaming about doing it since the day he saw it, which to be honest, was the only reason I'd bought it in the first place.

By the time we make it to the bed, I've already begged him twice to fuck me. When he finally does, I nearly cry from how good it feels, from being so goddamn close to him. He holds me and I feel everything deeper than I thought I would, every glance and touch and emotion. It all boils to the surface with him and I can't stop myself from telling him I love him, from wishing he would erase everyone I'd ever so much as looked at just so I could purify the image of love in my eyes until it's only him, and always him.

For someone who's never slept with a man before, he shocks me with how adept at it he is, though I suppose we'd perfected the art of foreplay with each other over the past two years, so I should have anticipated him being this good at it. Afterwards, he cuddles up to me, his head resting next to my shoulder and his arm draped over my torso as I thread my fingers through his hair.

No, they don't know about us. But as he sleeps against me, his face innocent and young in the dimly lit hotel room, I'm hopeful they will one day. Armie, who was there when my world seemed to stop the fall after we filmed; Armie, who stayed up all night on the phone with me once just because I had a late shoot and was too wired to sleep; Armie, who told me to chase my dreams, who knew all my secrets, who held me in such a way that our bodies appeared to be molded with the singular purpose of fitting together.

One day, they'll all know how he loves me, and they'll finally understand why I describe meeting him as the luck of the universe.

 


End file.
